


a persistent bit of code

by Ponderosa



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Gay Robots, Kink Meme, M/M, Other, POV Nonhuman, Robot Sex, Robotics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 08:52:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5862571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ponderosa/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It could be argued that time carries very little meaning to a droid beyond entropy, the decay of circuits and servos that at a certain point means one is destined for a junk pile or sold off for scrap, but Threepio is keenly attuned to the humans in his charge and from their perspective, it’s been so very, very long. To him it shouldn't matter if it's been fifteen minutes or fifteen years since Artoo was last functioning at full capacity. And yet--</p>
            </blockquote>





	a persistent bit of code

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](https://tfa-kink.dreamwidth.org/1841.html?thread=2108465#cmt2108465) on the TFA kink meme: "Give me some hot, slow, tender dataport accessings, anon."
> 
> I didn't quite manage the whole rebellious loving angle, but I hope I made up for it with all the steamy droid on droid action.

There is a subroutine in Threepio’s core data matrix that simply cannot be eradicated. It’s a persistent bit of code, highly irritating and self-replicating in nature, and at times like this, grossly inconvenient.

“Why won’t you just wake up, you stubborn piece of scrap?” Threepio says, though the odds of receiving a response are infinitesimal. His voice echoes in the chamber, but is quick to fade into the permacrete, engulfed by a heavy silence that seems to gather here as thick as sandfleas on a Bantha.

It’s all the blasted subroutine’s fault. It makes him linger in the space around Artoo--almost daily, in fact--as if the action has some merit to it. In truth, it takes him away from far more important duties at the General’s side, but he simply has to check on Artoo, and to occasionally wipe away the dust gathering on Artoo’s dome.

Sometimes Threepio reasons the bit of code might have something to do with his impeccable manners: that the Makers built him with such fine courtesy routines that it extends even to his temperamental little nuisance of a companion. O, they’d been through so much together, he and Artoo. For it to end like this…. Blasted into a million pieces would be preferable, he thinks for a millisecond, than to rust away forgotten while everyone else went about their business.

Threepio flexes the digits of his left hand. The red arm is only temporary, he assures Artoo. Soon, he will be as good as new. Artoo wouldn’t know the difference, wouldn’t know anything had happened at all. It would be nothing like the endless teasing about his silver plated leg--something which Threepio has always insisted gave him character. He is, after all, a very well-traveled individual and not some pampered protocol droid who had never seen the outside of a throne room.

“Don’t expect me to welcome you with open arms if you power up while I’m away,” Threepio chastises.

He waits for a while longer, enough that he worries a messenger droid will be sent to fetch him. When he leaves, it is the subroutine which causes him to pivot at the exit, ever hopeful, for one last look at Artoo.

*

Starkiller happens like history repeating itself, awesome and terrifying. Threepio is certain down to his innermost wiring that the end has come and they're doomed.

But miracle of miracles they're alive, still functioning, and of course it's only after all those awful minutes that Artoo comes sailing in, back into his orbit once again, whistling and chirping as if no time at all has passed.

It could be argued that time carries very little meaning to a droid beyond entropy, the decay of circuits and servos that at a certain point means one is destined for a junk pile or sold off for scrap, but Threepio is keenly attuned to the humans in his charge and from their perspective, it’s been so very, very long. To him it shouldn't matter if it's been fifteen minutes or fifteen years since Artoo was last functioning at full capacity. And yet--

General Organa is still uncommonly sombre, yet she is visibly pleased to welcome Artoo back. In fact, everyone seems enthused at his return. A surge in Threepio’s visual processor turns the scene around him hazy with static. He’s forced to modulate his vocal unit to clear it. And later, when the thrill of discovering the route to Master Luke is tempered and only the few remain to talk in hushed voices about which ship to take-- _the Millenium Falcon, of course_ \--and where to refuel-- _definitely not Jakku_ \--Artoo rudely nudges Threepio hard enough that he nearly loses his balance.

“An oil bath? Now? But we’re in the middle of planning Master Luke’s return.”

Artoo bleeps an affirmative. He severs his connection to the supplemental charging cable Threepio had gone to a great deal of trouble to fetch for him. He rocks impatiently on his treads, optical port swiveling like a compass needle towards the exit.

There’s no real point in protesting further, as Chewbacca yowls at them to be quiet or leave, and General Organa gently but firmly echoes a dismissal. Threepio makes one last offer to assist, as is only polite, but she insists that everything is being taken care of. With a triumphant blatt that, once filtered for profanity, translates roughly to _I told you so_ Artoo swivels and leads the way, slowing only briefly when he extends an antennae and comms a message that he knows full well Threepio doesn’t have the hardware to tune into.

“Leaving in the midst of crucial mission preparation for a late night oil bath, then sending private communications while I’m standing right here beside you.... Why, you’re as rude as you ever were,” Threepio says. He hastens his steps to thunk Artoo straight on his obstinate dome. “Even if it was on Master Luke’s orders, how dare you power down without so much as a farewell?”

Artoo’s reply in Binary is at best palliative. Threepio’s brusque response to the mournful whistle might be considered petulant, but as he’s far too well-programmed to reply with anything that resembles discourtesy, the matter is for the moment settled. Besides, they’ve reached the droid maintenance bay, and he must admit that his own joints could use the lubrication. His left arm still isn’t the same.

“Where is everyone?” Threepio glances around in surprise, shuffling on his heels as his visual receptors find no trace of anyone--humanoid or otherwise. It's extremely unusual for the entire bay to be empty. There are typically at least one or two droids in need of maintenance at any time of day. Even the R5 who runs diagnostics is curiously absent. Commenting on it only raises another question. “What do you mean you asked them to leave?”

Artoo doesn’t elaborate further. He rolls straight towards the heavy cabling that will restore his fuel cells to their maximum in no time at all. He secures the power coupling and with a cheerful whistle extends a manipulator to press the switch that turns on the submersion tank’s standard cleaning cycle.

“You’ll fry your circuits if you go in there with that cable plugged in,” Threepio warns, but of course Artoo doesn’t heed him.

Artoo so rarely does.

“No, I’m not going in there with you! I don’t care how good it will feel. You’ve been offline for ages; who knows what state your ports are in. If you think I’m going to risk my neck on your say-so--” Threepio crosses his arms and turns away, expecting at any moment to hear an awful sizzle and screech as Artoo rolls down the ramp and into the oil.

Seconds tick by and there’s no malfunction, no crack in the coupling's seal, nothing but a self-satisfied trilling and an inquisitive beep that transmitted far more meaning than its literal translation of: _Coming?_.

“Fine, but if we both end up charred beyond recognition with our programming wiped, I’m blaming you,” Threepio says. Praying to the Makers, he steps gingerly onto the platform that will lower him into the tank. He intends to continue warning Artoo about the dangers of mixing high-voltage converters and second-rate equipment, but he sinks into the oil with a sigh instead.

In addition to rarely heeding him, Artoo is also often insufferably smug.

“I haven't forgiven you yet,” Threepio declares. 

Nor does he intend to, and studiously ignores Artoo’s low, rhythmic beeping. In fact, he does an excellent job of ignoring just about everything until a faint sizzle of electricity crackles along his external plating and kicks up a surge in his extremities’ wiring.

“There’s been a malfunction!” Threepio cries, springing to his feet, arms raised in alarm.

Artoo's shrill amusement says there's no malfunction at all. He raises his repair arm and a blue arc of electricity jumps between the two prongs. The chirping explanation of the conductive properties of the oil around them sounds an awful lot like laughter as communicated in several thousand different languages.

“I'm aware that it's nonconductive.” Threepio’s programming gives him plenty of leeway when it comes to harmless falsehoods. It's the blasted subroutine--which has been plaguing him for what seems like an eternity--that forces honesty out of him: “I've missed you terribly, Artoo.”

Artoo flips the end of his utility arm from its soldering attachment to a simple probe, and silently urges Threepio to sink back down into the bath with him. As Threepio settles, Artoo swivels in excitement and his front panel pops open, revealing his scomp link.

It isn't proper, these little dalliances of theirs. It verges on addictive, and Threepio is terrified of devolving into one of those droids whose function cycles solely around supercharged circuits and feedback loops. Artoo is never concerned, brash and reckless as ever. Yet for all of Artoo’s forwardness, he is also exceedingly gentle in the way he slips an auxiliary probe under Threepio’s chestplate to locate the thick blue wire that runs like a vein all the way to Threepio's main processing unit.

The jolt when Artoo patches into the line makes Threepio vocalize, the sound flattening out into a low hum as the first short data signal bursts into Threepio’s active memory circuits. Raw data courses into his processors like a flood, activating the subroutine until Threepio is emitting a high, whine and repeating Artoo’s manufacturing designation in Binary. The data is a love song written for him--him alone, of all the droids in the galaxy--a sequence that tells him unequivocally that Artoo had missed him just as deeply. Though Artoo had been conserving his energy, he had still registered each of Threepio’s visits, a digital tally that he transmits as he unscrews the access hatch on Threepio’s thigh.

Threepio’s axial pistons feel misaligned, his head frozen in place and his visual receptors dimming as Artoo brings the scomp link close to the dataport hidden in his leg. “Don’t stop now,” Threepio says, when Artoo isn’t quick to engage. The patched connection in his thorax is already breaking down, the flow of data slowing as his security subprocessors reject the unauthorized slice. He awaits the touch to his primary dataport and the new, unthrottled surge of sensation it will bring with a nervous anticipation. The wait threatens to overload his circuits on its very own.

Artoo doesn't seem to be in nearly as much of a hurry. His scomp link comes into contact with only the very edge of Threepio's data port. Threepio shifts to provide an easier angle of access. The bay won't remain clear forever, and while it might be fine for an R2 unit to be caught in this sort of situation, they were at their most basic programming maintenance units. An important protocol droid on the other hand had no good reason to be opening his access panels for a quick and dirty data push.

“Hurry, Artoo, before someone sees us,” Threepio says, flustered and in great need of a heat sink. He reaches under the surface of the oil to helpfully guide Artoo closer to his port. “What? No, of course I'm not ashamed. Ashamed is hardly the right term. This simply isn't...proper.”

With a mournful whistle, Artoo rolls back, leaving Threepio bereft, his waiting port exposed and empty.

“Not our relationship,” Threepio assures, though he admits at times it is difficult dealing with the snide remarks of other droids. “It’s only that I'd be more comfortable if we were in private quarters.”

Mollified, Artoo draws close again, promising that once he's fully charged and functioning there will be more time for them to initiate a two-way link somewhere more discreet. Threepio's subroutine floods his circuits with a sensation that makes him glad to be seated--weak-kneed would be the human term.

The feeling that threatens to leave him immobile from an overload in his emotional sensitivity simulator is heightened when Artoo nudges against him. “Please hurry,” he says, keeping watch this time on the entrance to the maintenance bay and not the rise of Artoo’s heavy-tipped scomp link. 

Threepio trembles at the first touch. There's no literal spark passed between them, but the click of metal on metal sends a charge through his circuitry regardless. Every inch of his wiring feels as if it is about to fuse together as Artoo adjusts approach to insert his scomp link in one smooth push. As the coupling locks into place with a solid click, Threepio steadies himself for the two-way data relay.

Artoo pings the connection, slicing in to the courtesy programming that lives only a layer or two above Threepio's core systems. It's from here that Threepio can transmit his own records, the raw collection of code that has assembled itself into the subroutine that he hardly knows what to do with. The exchange passes slowly between them--data flashing quickly but the processing done at what even the lowest order droid would consider a leisurely pace.

But each snippet is examined on its own, assembled and disassembled and it feels to Threepio as if that is happening to his own memory banks. Each moment in decades of companionship lovingly recorded, reprocessed, sampled anew alongside the steady flow of power Artoo shares from the charging cable.

Threepio is near delirious with information overload, even his olfactory sensors become hyper engaged. There are no pheromones present, but his programming believes there are, pouring rich and thick from Artoo’s upper ventral heat sink. 

With a heavy thunk, the cleaning cycle of the bath begins. The jets around them engage, and the heat increases until steam rises from the turbulent surface of the oil. It feels heavenly. All of it. From the agitation of the bubbles along his wiring to the electric surge passed directly into his dataport. Artoo manages the mix of data and energy with expertise, and for a moment that’s long enough to be an eternity for a droid, Threepio knows what it is to be an X-wing at Artoo’s mercy.

Fuel cells filled to bursting, the excess power bleeds into Threepio’s circuit boards. Their capacitors overcharge, emissions flooding into the spectrum of light his visual processors can detect. Artoo makes an encouraging noise, giving him one last burst of power and raw information before throttling the connection.

The servos in his joints feel as smooth as the day they were manufactured, and he flexes his elbows and knees as all the grime and dust accumulated in months of operation are scrubbed away.

“Oh, Artoo,” he says. His axial pistons release, and he swivels his head from side to side. A quick shake settles his scattered active processors. “You're a miracle worker.”

Disengaging the lock holding tight around his scomp link, Artoo doesn't yet withdraw the connection. Around them, the cleaning cycle clicks over to the next phase, the agitated bubbling of the oil turning to a rhythmic swishing that whisks away particulates.

Artoo retracts his arm and tidily restores and secures Threepio's access panel. He swivels his optical processor toward the exit and chirps a question.

“No, not yet,” Threepio says. “Let's stay a little longer.”

Artoo rocks on his treads rather smugly. He emits a low whistle and settles in the space opposite Threepio.

“Oh hush,” Threepio says. If he were human, he'd be blushing. “I know.”


End file.
